We'll Walk into War
by annicaspoons
Summary: "This year is different from other years. It feels like everything is about to snap – collapse." Very long, three-parter, Hunger Games AU. Characters from both Season One and Season Two. Part two: The Barracks.
1. the march

"_**We'll walk into War"**_

_**Part one**_ | Part two (will be up in a week) | Part three

**Title:** "the march"  
**Author:** annicaspoon  
**Rating:** T  
**Word Count:** 6,353  
**Characters:** Almost all of them are mentioned at least once. From the pre time-skip and post time skip teams, with some extras added in. Only two or three explicitly shown pairings  
**Summary:** _"This year is different from other years. It feels like everything is about to snap – collapse."  
_**Author's Notes:** Very long Hunger Games AU. ALL the characters, ALL the subplots, ALL the deaths. I normally don't do these type of things, but I saw a graphic floating around tumblr and then I was also inspired by a video that Brella made for me ages ago (links to them can be found on my profile page) – aaand my brain pretty much went BOOM!

This was also a bit of an experiment for me, trying to juggle the plights and mindsets of multiple characters in one fic

(also this has taken WAY too damn long to write – sorry -_-)

~o~O~o~

The six months before this reaping are different to other years. The same dread and anxiety as every other year hangs around the months leading up to the games; but there's more than that in the air. A tenseness - unsettled activity and whispers of rebellion and uprisings. The attitudes of the district residents are more fearful and on edge than usual, but there's also something else - an undercurrent of hope, determination and heart. Whether or not that is beneficial or destructive, depends on perspective.

But none-the-less, this year carries far more disquiet than other years. Order is hanging from a thread - about to snap and collapse.

And of course, this is a Quarter Quell year.

-o-

"_On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district is required to send twice as many tributes."_

As soon as the words float through the TV speakers and sink in among the adults and children with their eyes trained on the screen, chaos rips through the districts. Parents grow fearful and clutch their children close, because it's not two young people that will be reaped for the annual event, but four, and the odds of their children being drawn from the glass container is immediately heightened. Nightmares fill the heads of the young boys and girls who will stand in order in a few months to wait and see who will be thrown into the arena, praying in their minds over and over that it will not be themselves, because if they are reaped to participate this year, they will not be up against the usual twenty-three other participants, but instead, they will have to survive the odds against forty-seven.

That's the reaction among most of the districts, anyway. Up in District Two, among the training of future peacekeepers and building of weapons that could even be chosen to be used in this year's games, Conner Kent merely nods at the news and turns around to get back to his training. While the result of the Quelling isn't ideal, he can still manage to figure out a way to defeat the extra twenty-four tributes and win his way to upholding the expectations set on his shoulders. This year is his year to volunteer for the boys, after years of gruelling training under the past victors of District Two, one of which, being his cousin, Clark Kent. Clark, nicknamed "The Superman" by Capitol media, is Conner's great idol; his role model, the man he has been brought up and trained to surpass the achievements of.

While other boys of District Two scoff at the idea, stating that Conner should be his own man, rather than trying to live up to the old glory of a past tribute, Conner disregards them (he's never been one for socialism) and continues training - watching tapes of past games, learning a variety of ways to fight, heightening his resourcefulness, his strategic thinking, anything, _everything _- anything that can help him, that can heighten his skills, so he can go to these games and come back from them as a Victor, another name for the history books, a true District Two man and warrior, and a worthy successor for the Superman's legacy.

* * *

Roy Harper knew this was coming.

It's been hanging there for years, from his first reaping - six years ago - to his last - today. Each year it has always been the same process, the dread and anxiousness leading up to the reaping, the minutes in which he holds his breath and waits for his name to be called out, the rush of relief when it isn't, and the months of calm following the games until the next year, where the whole routine starts over again.

He's known from his first time that he will be reaped one year. It's bound to happen, as it always is when you are the son (or daughter) of a previous victor, but this is just _torture_. Every year he has steeled himself, ready for his name to be drawn out, and every year it's someone else. His father, Oliver, a victor who won the games through survival, fashioning himself his own bow and arrows in order to hunt his food and opposition, tries to push optimism onto Roy - not _every _child of a victor is reaped, maybe Roy will be safe, maybe he won't have to participate in the games.

But Roy knows better. And as he lines up among the other eighteen-year old boys from District Ten, he knows, for sure, that his name is going to be one of those pulled out of the glass bowl at the front.

As always, girls are drawn first, and he watches as a young girl walks tentatively out of the fourteen year-olds' line as the name "Cissie King-Jones" is called out. Her hands are trembling slightly and her eyes dart around nervously as she walks up to the stage, but as she is guided to stand next to the District Ten chaperone, her jaw tightens, fists clench, and she straightens and gazes at the audience. She is not going to let herself be labelled as weak. Roy feels a twinge of admiration towards her for that.

Because there are four tributes going instead of two, the girls' names are rustled about again and another slip of paper is plucked from the container. "Artemis Crock" is announced and another girl from the sixteen year-olds' strides up to the stage. As he watches her walk up, her long and thick blonde ponytail swaying side to side as she steps up to the stage, Roy can't shake the feeling that he's heard her name somewhere; that there's something about her that's important for him to remember, but his mind stays blank as their escort crosses the stage to draw from the boy's names.

The first name drawn is not his. Instead, a sixteen year-old named Merlyn is called up, a boy that Roy has noticed many times playing with his prey - taking the hunter philosophy like many of District Ten, but adding his own cruel and twisted outlook into the mix, cutting his prey up slowly and deliberately while they still squirm underneath him.

He's dangerous.

Finally, Roy hears his name echo through the speakers; the last name pulled out, in his last year of reaping. As he takes his own walk up the aisle towards the others, he sees Ollie bow his head at the back of the stage. The usual speech of congratulations and the ever so familiar 'may the odds be ever in your favour' are given out to the four tributes, and they all face each other to shake hands as the usual custom.

It's only once he moves to shake the hand of Artemis Crock, and her dark, hard eyes dart up to meet his, that her name finally clicks in his head and he realizes why she looks so familiar.

And suddenly, Merlyn, with his obvious killer instinct and lack of remorse, is the least of Roy's worries.

* * *

The small Garfield Logan has to be pulled up to the front platform by the District Nine peacekeepers, his eyes wide and terrified as he looks around desperately for someone - anyone - who will step forward and save him. He trips on the last step up to the platform and lurches forward, his breath hitching in his throat. He's certain he's going to land flat on his face when a slim hand reaches out and catches his arm just above the elbow, steadying and guiding him to the middle of the stage.

He's half-expecting the crowd to laugh at him as he stumbles towards the middle of the stage, just like that time he slipped in a puddle and fell straight onto his butt in front of his classroom, his tailbone aching and his eyes and face burning as he tried to ignore the titters and snickers of his classmates. But the crowd stays in a sombre silence. No one dares laugh about this.

He looks up at the owner of the hand that's softly gripping his arm and meets the large, soft brown eyes of Megan Morse, the seventeen year old with auburn locks framing her face and demure smile always on her lips. Right now though, her lips are pressed together in anxiety and her hair is pulled back, exposing a pale face and apprehensive expression as she gives the smaller boy a silent nod of encouragement before lifting her head and facing the audience. She loosens her grip on his arm, but her fingers linger close to his skin - just in case he's in need of support again. It's insane, but she can't stop herself from feeling a surge of protectiveness towards him; a responsibility to keep this boy - with his wide blue eyes, adventurous grin and love for the animals in his mother's refuge - safe, no matter what the cost.

Though, given the circumstances that they've been thrown, this task she's inserted onto herself is going to be virtually impossible to achieve.

But as she looks down at the boy by her side, and watches him bite down hard on his lower lip and try to blink away the tears as he stares out at the audience, she knows that these odds aren't going to stop her from trying as hard as she damn well can.

* * *

He's never been among the strongest. He's never been renowned for being particularly skilled or talented in any certain area. He's not among the most attractive, or the most charismatic. Really, there isn't much going for him.

So it's a surprise for all of District Four, that when there is a call for any volunteers, La'gaan is the one who steps up.

He lifts his chin and stands tall as he strides up to the podium, relishing in the hush that has fallen completely over the members of the District that surround him. The normal murmurs of regret or gossip of encouragement is absent, and the entire community around him has been shocked and bewildered into silence. There isn't even a hum in the air.

His sense of victorious silence however, is cut off abruptly when one of the girls on the tribute stage breaks her composure and cries out, backing away from the others and moving to run off the stage. La'gaan recognizes her as a girl from school, Lori, someone he has often spoken to during lunchtimes and is usually confident and content with her life. It's strange to see her like this; completely losing it, kicking and screaming against the peacekeepers that attempt to carry her back up to the stage. All eyes are trained on the girl, and La'gaan thinks he can hear some members of the audience begin to sob along with Lori. He notices the other two volunteering tributes, Garth and Tula, two of the top students in the District's victor training, step closer to each other and slide their hands into the other's, interlacing their fingers.

But once again, a hush is settled over the crowd (bar Lori, who is still sobbing and whimpering in the clutches of the peacekeepers), and La'gaan raises his chin and smiles again, waiting for the attention to turn back to him.

But the audience hasn't quieted because of him. They aren't looking at him. Instead, all eyes are on a serene-faced, dark-skinned boy, a little older than La'gaan, who is walking towards the podium. La'gaan knows him as Kaldur'am – Kaldur, a dropout from the special school where young people are trained to be volunteering tributes in the games and come out as Victors. Kaldur looks straight into the eye of the District Four chaperone and states in a soft, but clear and easily heard voice, "I volunteer as a tribute in place of Lori."

Now the audience is pushed into whispered queries and exclamations. Is he able to do that? What do the rules say? Something like this has never happened before. He couldn't possibly be allowed. They already have two males, both of which are volunteers. It wouldn't be possible.

The fuss goes on as officials dash into the government building to look through the rulebook, and everyone is instructed to stay in place. La'gaan begins to feels restless and fidgety waiting for them, as are both Tula and Garth. Kaldur however, stays motionless and continues to stare up at the podium, waiting for the officials to return, every so often sending a sympathetic look towards Lori.

The officials come back with their ruling. There is nothing listed in the rules about a male volunteering for a female tribute, or vice-versa, and with no instruction rejecting the idea, the volunteer must be accepted. Kaldur nods and steps up next to his former tributes, while Lori is released from the peacekeepers and runs to her family, stopping for a moment to whisper multiple thankyous to Kaldur. The rest of the District salutes Kaldur and cheers his name, and the last thing La'gaan hears before they are pushed inside the government building, is the culmination of praise for a tribute who is not him.

* * *

District Two is thrown into uproar as volunteers are called up (they don't do a draw in District Two; they never do, as it is evident from months before who's choosing to volunteer for each game). At first, Conner is not sure what everyone is yelling about; he's been too busy trying to catch the eye of Clark Kent, hoping to see the famous victor looking back at him with a proud expression on his face – but Clark's attention is elsewhere, in the same direction the attention of most of District Two has been guided to. Conner breaks his gaze away and glances towards the source of the chaos to see a young girl – blonde hair and excited expression on her face – break out from the line of fourteen year-old girls and announce with her head held high and her voice loud and clear for everyone to hear; "I volunteer as a tribute."

There are outraged shouts and protests as she walks down the aisle and steps up to the podium, and Conner can hear his fellow male tribute, and friend, Cameron Mahkent whisper; "What the hell is she thinking?" Conner doesn't reply, but he agrees. District Two already has four volunteers, all of them fully fledged warriors in their own rights, having gone through years of training, and all of them either seventeen or eighteen years of age; the last two years in which they are able to participate. There is no place for a fourteen year-old naïve fangirl on this stage.

Still, the officials gather the three female volunteers to discuss how this is going to be resolved as the audience waits. One man calls out for a trail by combat to determine who is fit enough to represent the District in this games, receiving quite a loud assent from many other members of the audience, but after a short talk it is decided that a chance toss is the easiest and quickest way to resolve this problem. The coin will be tossed. Once to determine whether the young girl – Cassie Sandsmark, she announces to the crowd – will be participating in the games; and, if she wins that, a second time to decide which of the previous tributes she will be taking the place of.

The coin is flipped – and even though he can't see the result, Conner knows from the way Cassie pumps her fist and whispers a 'yes!', she has won the first gamble. The coin is thrown into the air a second time, and one of the previous girls slated for the games growls and spits on the stage at Cassie's feet, before striding powerfully down the stairs and out of view.

As Cassie faces the front and beams at the crowd, Conner once again hears Cameron whispering. "Does she have any idea what she's just signed up for?" Conner casts a sidelong glance at his friend, and from that glance he can tell immediately that Cam doesn't want to be up here. He's scared. And that's only fair, seeing as he was never supposed to be up here in the first place; not this year, anyway. Maybe next year would have been his turn, but this year was supposed to be Conner's year. However, the adjusted rules of the Quarter Quell, and Cam's authoritarian father have forced him to be the second male volunteer for this year, and Conner knows, Cameron's not ready for it.

But at least Cameron is aware of the extent of the event he is about to be thrown into. At least he's had proper training for it, and he knows his odds and understands what he has to do in order to better them throughout these next few weeks. Conner looks up at the young Cassie, almost bouncing where she stands in her excitement, grinning at the rest of District Two, completely ignorant of what she's going to have to face.

She won't last the first ten minutes.

* * *

_It is simple. You participate in these games, you destroy your opponents, and you can come back here._

"It's not that simple."

_You are mistaken._

"I can't just kill these people!"

_Your compassion makes you weak. Studying these games of the past years, it can be determined that many of your opponents will not feel the same way about you. _

"I'm not _killing_ anyone." He whispers earnestly, and the voice – the Beetle – finally keeps quiet. Whether that means he's won the argument, or that the Beetle has decided to follow plans of its own, Jaime Reyes isn't sure.

He slumps forward in his chair and moves an arm to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead. He finds his pinkie finger is caught in a hole in the sleeve of his jumper, and he attempts to untangle it, eventually just wrestling his whole jumper off and dropping it at his feet. He's not going to need it for much longer anyway; may as well give it to his parents for Milagro to grow into.

His stomach plummets. His parents. Milagro. His loud, infuriating little sister, Milagro. Who is going to play with her in the afternoons now? Who will pull the crusts off her sandwiches for her? Who will she crawl into bed with when she gets nightmares, and who's going to keep her entertained when their parents are working late at the clinic?

His thoughts are cut off and his gaze snaps up as the door in front of him opens and his parents step through it, their faces creased with lines of worry. No one speaks to begin with. Instead, Jaime's parents gather him into an embrace and clutch on him tight, like maybe they can attach themselves to him so he has no choice but to stay with them and never have to leave District Twelve into this death sentence. Then maybe they can go back to their normal lives – his parents working at their health clinic in the district, while Jaime and Milagro sit out the back and wait for them to finish, drawing on the ground and walls with pieces of charcoal – and the only thing they have to worry about is what they're going to cook for dinner for the night.

But those are far-flung dreams; and really, they had to expect this some time. In District Twelve, the odds are never in your favour; that's evident from day one. Even if you dodge the death sentence that is the Hunger Games, you're still stuck with the other option – maybe even the worse option – of dying a slow, painful death of starvation and poor health here in District Twelve. The only real difference is that one death is televised, while the other, hardly anybody will know.

_This is a waste of time._ Jaime blocks out the scratchy voice in his head and instead focuses on his mother's hurried whispering in his ear – "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay" – and his father's voice forcing itself through a tight throat of tears – "You come back to us son, alright? You come back to us."

Finally Jaime has to push them off, and looks up at them, biting his lip – his own nose runny and his throat choked up. He pushes his jumper into his mother's hands. "Look after Milagro, and tell her I love her for me." He is enveloped into his mothers arms once again, and he breathes in her scent; an odd mix of sanitiser – that "clinical" smell – and the rose perfume she keeps in a small bottle the bathroom, which Jaime spilt all over himself when he was six, smelling like roses for a whole week as he ducked his head and avoided anyone else's eyes at school.

"We will," she says, "We love you." Jaime buries his face into her shoulder as his fathers' arms circle around his back.

"I love you, too," he whispers, before the door to the room is flung open once again and peacekeepers pull his parents away and out of the room, sobbing and yelling. Jaime slumps back down on the chair, suddenly feeling cold and wishing he hadn't given his jumper to his mother – and alone once more.

_Almost_ alone.

_This…affection you feel for your family. It is exactly what makes you weak. You must extradite it in order to be able to win this competition. You must-_

"Shut up," he whispers harshly. "Shut. Up."

* * *

Zatanna isn't sure how Billy managed to get into the government building of District Eight, but she doesn't ask any questions, and welcomes the hug he offers her as soon as he steps inside the room. He gives her an encouraging smile and she wraps her arms around his shoulders. "You'll be alright," he says, "you'll be fine – I know it," and Zatanna is at a loss in trying to comprehend how her eleven year-old friend can remain so strong, so hopeful and sure of what he believes, in a world where no-one else is.

When they pull away, Zatanna can hear her father outside the room, his voice loud and forceful as he begs for her to be released, demands to talk to someone in charge, insists that there must be a mistake. There must. There's no way his daughter could've been reaped to participate in this years Hunger Games. They had to have done something wrong.

Billy has also noticed the loud voices coming from the other side of the door, and sends Zatanna a sympathetic look. "Don't worry," he whispers, "it'll be okay. Just make it back, and everything will be fine again."

Zatanna swallows back the lump in her throat. "But if I want to make it back, that'll mean I have to win, and that means I'll probably have to…" Billy is looking at her with a confused expression – not completely sure of what's she's trying to say. "…kill people," Zatanna forces out as a choked whisper, and her friend's eyes widen and he mouths an 'oh'. Billy opens his mouth to say something more, but is cut off as the yelling from outside the tiny room they're perched in grows louder, and the sound of a scuffle joins in amongst the shouts. Zatanna can hear the distinct voice of her father easily through all the others; it's roaring and panicked and she's never heard it sound anything like this before. He's screaming out for her, but as much as her heart is begging her run out towards him, the fear of what is happening on the other side of that door drives her feet to take a step backwards, further away from the chaos occurring outside.

She hears the shouted command of "Get the tribute down in the car with the rest of them!", and the door is thrown open. The peacekeeper that has obviously been assigned to take her outside catches Billy standing next to her, and the younger boy squeaks at the sight of the imposing figure gaining on him. "The hell are you doing in here?" the peacekeeper bellows, bewildered as he takes a step towards the eleven year old boy.

Zatanna quickly steps between Billy and the advancing brute. "Run," she hisses over her shoulder and Billy darts around the peacekeeper and out through the door. For a moment Zatanna believes he has gotten out safe, and almost gives a sigh of relief, when she hears a cry and the victorious shout of "Got him!"

"No," Zatanna whimpers, falling into step as the peacekeeper in front of her grabs her arm forcefully and pulls her out of the room. As she is dragged out of the room, she catches a glimpse of her father; held back by three peacekeepers, he begins thrashing around in their grips as he sees her walk out of the door, screaming for her, "Zatanna! Zatanna!"

After a moment the peacekeepers decide they've had enough, and one of them clobbers her father over the head with his baton. Zatanna screams, and must begin flailing around herself, trying to reach him, because the peacekeeper that had been guiding her has jerked her off the ground and is now carrying her out of the government building. Zatanna catches Billy's eye as she is carried out; trapped by two peacekeepers and looking at her with an expression of complete fear that hits Zatanna so hard it feels like someone has just knifed her in the heart. "Just make it back, okay?" He yells at her as he himself is picked up, his voice choked and wobbling and sounding like he's ready to scream. "Just make it back."

"Where are you taking them?" Zatanna gasps out as she is dropped into the car that waits outside for them. She scrabbles on the car seat, trying to get out, her hands slipping on the leather. "What are you going to do to them?" The car door is slammed in her face and her hands press against the glass window as she stares horrified at the government building, gasping for air and tear creating tracks down her face, completely heedless of what her fellow tributes in the car are currently thinking of her.

* * *

Artemis has no idea why Oliver is even bothering with the train ride pep-talk, seeing as the only one that is actually paying any attention is Cissie – leaning forward and staring intently at the victor, taking in every piece of advice he has. Merlyn scoffed as soon as the talk had started, and left the main compartment to lock himself in his own, doing what everyone else can only imagine. Artemis herself is focusing her attention through the windows of the train, watching the different types of terrains and landscapes pass by swiftly, and entertaining herself with wondering which one of these environments is going to be the one that this year's arena is based off.

And Roy Harper, it appears, is centering his attention on her.

At first, Artemis told herself that she was being paranoid – that maybe she just happened to be standing in his line of sight, but even after she moved to the other side of the carriage, his eyes continued to train on her; a constant, unwavering heat, warming her blood more and more until it's ready to boil.

And finally, it simmers over.

"Alright," she growls, her eyes snapping away from the window. She stands up and crosses her arms, mirroring Roy's pose as she meets his eyes. "What's your problem?"

Ollie stops talking, and both he and Cissie glance up at the two. Roy however, doesn't flinch. "Just seeing what I'm up against," he says slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, and of course, _I'm_ your biggest threat." Roy shrugs.

"Everyone in the district knows your family's history," he says. "I'm curious, though. If you happen to win this year, are you going to desert the district like your father and sister did a few years ago?"

Artemis feels a spark of anger drive through her chest. "Don't tell me you're still bitter about the fact that my sister screwed you over," she shoots back, smirking as Roy visibly bristles.

"I've got my eye on you," he growls, and now it's Artemis' turn to be irritated. She pushes her back off the wall and uncrosses her arms.

"Well," she spreads out her arms, "why don't we save you from all the trouble?" She spies a steak knife sitting on the table next to her, and her hand darts out to get it. She keeps her eyes trained on Roy and lowers into a fighting stance. "Let the games begin!" Roy also lowers and prepares to block her incoming strike.

"_Enough._" A hand whips out and strikes Artemis wrist, causing her to curse and drop the knife. Oliver stands between the two teens and sends then both a hard look of provocation. "Both of you sit down." His voice is deep and loud in the carriage, and both Roy and Artemis are pushed back into their seats out of pure shock. "Obviously, neither of you were listening to what I was just saying," Ollie says, before turning to Cissie. "Cissie, do you want to tell these two what I just told you?"

The young blonde glances quickly around the three before she recites. "You were saying that because this year's games have double the participants, it's extremely important to make sure you have some allies."

"And the best allies you can get, are the ones from your own district," Ollie finishes, sending a meaningful look towards Roy and Artemis. "If you two think that the person across from you is your biggest opponent, you've got another thing coming. Because there are forty-six other people in these games, and lot of them will be stronger, faster, smarter and far more prepared for this than you. This is a whole lot bigger than any personal problems that you two have with each other, and there is no way that either of you are going to be able to survive against forty-seven people all working towards the same goal, if you go into this alone."

The compartment is silent for a while after he finishes, before Roy finally speaks up. "All working toward the same goal?"

"Winning, Roy." Roy narrows his eyes towards the ground, thinking, as Ollie continues.

"Everyone who is in that arena when the buzzer goes off, is aiming to win."

* * *

District Three isn't aiming to win. No, their plan runs much further than winning; surviving this and freeing themselves. If this all works out, then hopefully they'll be able to achieve the freedom of everyone – all of the tributes, all of the districts. This will be the first blow on the Capitol from the resistance, this will be the horn's call to battle; this is where it will all begin.

The fate of everyone – essentially, the final result of the war that they aim to trigger – is all relying on what they do in this year's arena.

No pressure.

The four tributes, all volunteers who have been in this plan for almost a year, listen intently to their mentor, and head of District Three's resistance. Bruce Wayne is a solid, stone-faced victor from years past, with an intense demeanour and fragments of ghosts and old hauntings rippling at the edges of his eyes. He explains everything they need to know in short, hard facts. Everything they'll need for their mission will be provided to them; hidden among the clothes assigned to them by resistance insiders within the Capitol. They'll have to keep a low profile in order to prevent the Gamemaker from figuring out what they are doing and attempting to stop them, and they'll have to be precise. They're only going to get one shot at this, and if they blow that, it's over.

Tim Drake, the youngest of District Three's tributes at fourteen, chews on his lower lip in anxiety as his mind scrambles to take in everything Bruce has to say; as he tries to tell himself that he can do this. This is just like another drill; another practice. The last few practices they've performed have gone off without a hitch, so this – the real thing – shouldn't be any different.

He looks over at Dick, and the older boy gives him an encouraging smile as Barbara speaks up. "How many people are in on the plan?"

"Only members of District Three know about the full plan, although members of the Capitol Resistance have the details of what you will need, and there are a few other districts that know that something has been planned and are prepared to give their full support to you all," Bruce replies, to which Barbara nods. Tim licks his lips and gazes down at his hands, thinking as he asks his own question. "Which districts?"

Bruce directs his attention to the younger boy. "Both District Five and Six are associated with the resistance and are aware there is a plan. We're not sure whether District Eight know of anything, but there has certainly been some raised rebellion activity occurring in the district. We've been working on gaining District Ten's support."

"Regardless," he continues, "you are not to communicate with anyone from those districts, or any other tributes for that matter, throughout the preparation for the games. Focus on your mission. Anything that the other districts need to know will be communicated through their mentors and myself." All four tributes nod in assent, and Bruce pulls out a long, rolled up, sheet of paper.

"These are the tools you will be supplied with," he says, unrolling the sheet. "What you'll have to do is…"

* * *

"Thank you." A soft voice floats on the air behind him to his ears, and Wally West lazily lolls his head backwards to meet the dark eyes and sad smile looking down at him. Karen shrugs and continues. "If you hadn't have volunteered, then Mal would have, and I…" she breaks off and her gaze moves up to fix on the scenery flying past the window of the train. She doesn't finish the sentence that is resting on her lips, but anyone can easily guess what she was going to say.

_I don't think I would have been able to handle fighting against the person I love. I don't think I could handle seeing them die._

Wally also looks out the window. "Well," he says, moving his arms to rest behind his neck, "I wouldn't want to miss on the 'great honour of participating in the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games!'" Sarcasm threads through his words, and his mouth twitches up into a bitter smile. Hopefully, if he plays this all off as a joke, Karen won't ask him about the real reason he…

"He's your cousin, isn't he? The kid you volunteered for?" Wally's jaw tightens as he remembers Bart Allen's name being called out, and the way his uncle had frozen and his aunt had gasped in horror as they watched their son walk up to the podium. "Yeah," he ekes out, "he is."

"That's good of you to volunteer for him like that." Wally doesn't say anything, keeping the disgusting truth to himself, that saving Bart was not the first thing on his mind as he stood up to take his place. No, the thing on his mind was created from the disgusting worms of insecurity and pride that wriggled their way into his brain; the idea that maybe, for once, he'll be better at something than his younger cousin. It's a ghastly idea, and completely inappropriate, given the circumstances, but it's the one that was rooted in his head as he called out the words "I volunteer", and took the place of his fourteen year old cousin.

Wally shakes the reminders from his head and directs his attention up to the TV in time to see the replay of a tiny, stiff-faced and terrified boy from District Nine being pulled up by peacekeepers to the platform. He hears Karen shift behind him and make a sound that's almost akin to a growl as the camera zooms in to focus on the young boy's face; his bottom lip trembling so much he has to bite down in it, his green eyes darting around the crowd in desperation and absolute terror.

"This is insane," Karen mutters, low enough that only Wally is able to hear it. "All of this needs to end."

Wally's eyes shift around the room, scanning for any peacekeepers before replying. "If what we're being told about Three is true," he murmurs back, just as quietly, "hopefully, this year, it will."

* * *

The roar of applause during the opening ceremony is louder than in previous years. There are more tributes, more excitement, more reason to celebrate. Every night for the week, extravagant parties are held out in the Capitol; laughing, dancing, betting, gossiping. Cassie stares out through the window in District Two's luxury apartment, mouth open in a wide grin of awe. The celebrations are so full of colour and light that it's impossible to imagine that these people could be the cold and cruel sadists that the citizens of the districts make them out to be. Cassie doesn't understand how any of this could be seen as horrible.

Conner stands next to her, also looking down at the festivities. Though in contrast to Cassie's expression of wonder, his face is masked with a frown of confusion. He might be someone who has trained for this, but he still knows the price of the games. He knows that many kids die each year for it – even more this year – and he doesn't understand how these people don't realize that as well.

Don't they know, that this event, this form of entertainment, is actually just a mass sacrifice to make sure the districts are kept in line?

* * *

**Reviews are very much appreciated! **


	2. the barracks

"_**We'll walk into War"**_

Part one | _**Part two**_ | Part three (will hopefully be up soon!)

**Title:** "the barracks"

**Word Count:** 6,063

**Author's Notes:** Whoops, I was a week late getting this up :| Sorry about that

~o~O~o~

The training centre is bigger than in other years – or, so they've been told – but that doesn't stop the stifling heat that emanates from almost fifty young, tense and nervous bodies. Zatanna can feel the wet breath of every other tribute hanging in the air, and her eyes continue to dance around the room, overwhelmed by the amount of people here – the amount of _kids_ – all soon to be dead.

She's not a fool; she knows that there's no chance that she's going to get out of this alive. The imposing figures of just the Careers are enough to whittle down her chances, let alone every other tribute she's up against.

Even if she did have a chance at winning, she's not even sure of what she would be going home to; whether her father and Billy are even still alive or not.

(No. She can't think like that. They're alive. They have to be.)

"Are you planning on going anywhere?" Zatanna jumps and turns around to meet warm brown eyes and dark skin. She glances around and notes that everyone else has peeled off, moving to the different training stations, while she's remained planted in place.

"S-sorry," Zatanna murmurs, ducking her head and stepping to the side. The girl who has spoken to her holds up a hand.

"No, no! I wasn't saying it because you were in my way; I just thought it might be helpful to you if you were actually going to the stations instead of just standing here looking at the floor. That's all." The girl smiles at her and moves to walk past, but before she strides off, she swings her head back to face Zatanna. "Have you ever learnt rope-knotting before?" Zatanna shakes her head. "Well, come on. You're not going to get very far if you don't know how to tie a rope." The girl walks over to one of the stations, and, after a moment of wondering what has just happened, Zatanna tentatively follows her.

* * *

The Beetle becomes even noisier once training begins, ordering Jaime to different stations – all the weapon stations – insisting over and over and _over again_, that Jaime 'must be willing to eliminate all targets'. Jaime's so occupied with trying to tell the Beetle to just _shut up_, that he doesn't notice his feet leading him straight to the spear station, and the group of Careers standing at it; strong arms propelling sharp spears into dummies, and the burst of laughter that erupts from the group as they watch the vain attempts of other tributes at their own stations. Jaime's head jerks up just in time for it to bump into the broad back of one Career, who turns and looks down incredulously at the District Twelve boy, while the rest of the gathered Careers laugh.

"Looks like you've found yourself a new buddy, Con," snarls a tall, pale guy, who nudges 'Con' as Jaime stumbles backwards, holding his hands up in surrender.

"It's a pity we can't start the Games right now." This time, the comment has come from a girl, who looks especially intimidating with red hair swept over one eye, and half her head shaved and tattooed with the image of a skull. It's apparent that she, and the blond-haired twins with multiple zig-zags and patterns shaved into their skulls, are from District One. The first district has always shown that flair and love for outrageous and fiendish-looking styles, being influenced by the Capitol over the years.

"S-sorry," Jaime stammers up to the boy he walked into, who's continuing to stare at him indifferently. Jaime steps to back away as the rest of the group advance towards him.

"Come on kid…don't be scared. We're not gonna bite you – yet." The Beetle is growing louder in his head – _they are enemies! Hostiles. Kill them!_ – and Jaime shakes his head to try and rid it of the scratchy voice. He takes another step backwards, tripping and landing straight on his ass, while the Beetle continues to bristle furiously inside him. _Kill them now! Seize the spears in their hands and use them to eliminate the target! Do it! Do it !_

"No!" He's clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut. The Careers stop walking towards him and look at each other in confusion. "I won't do it. I won't do it. I'm never going to do it so stop trying to make me! Just shut up!"

Something must click inside one of the minds of the Careers, because he straightens up and begins laughing. He's one of the blond twins – the boy – and he holds his hand to his stomach as he doubles over. "He's from District Twelve all right," he gasps between chuckles. "Everyone knows they breed the weird ones." His laughter infects the other Careers, and they stand there and mock Jaime as he continues to keep his head ducked between his knees, his cheeks heating up in embarrassment.

"What's wrong, kid?" The blond Career spits towards Jaime. "Y'got scared lil' voices in your head?" No, no, no – much worse – Jaime wants to warn him, but continues to keep his head down and listen to the taunts aimed towards him.

"Leave him alone." Jaime pokes his head up a little to see another tribute standing off to the side of him, frowning at the Careers. He recognizes her as the auburn haired beauty from District Nine, and the small boy standing behind her as also a District Nine tribute. "Don't you have anything better to do than taunt some poor boy? It's bad enough that he's already stuck here like the rest of us." For a moment it looks like the Careers are about to turn onto her, but her statement has caught the attention of the boy Jaime had originally bumped into, the one the others called 'Con', who surprisingly, had stayed back where he originally was while the others were busy intimidating Jaime. "She's right guys," he says, moving to turn around. "He's not worth our time.

"Just leave him."

* * *

"Don't touch that." Artemis hears the warning clearly through the noise of the rowdy Careers and the grunts and clang of steel-on-steel and weapons sparring. Her hand freezes above the plant she's currently studying; bright green with few broad leaves and an unusual shaped bulb – just two extended halves with zig-zag filaments on the edges.

She glances up and draws her hand away, meeting the eyes of a boy with the reddest, messiest hair she's ever seen. He breaks off a long, thick stick from a nearby tree and, holding one end, gently taps the bulb of the plant in front of her with the other end.

The two halves snap shut so quickly and fiercely that Artemis flinches; not completely noticeable, but still enough to make her scowl at herself. The end of the stick that touched the plant is now a pile of splinters, and Artemis can hear crunching noises from inside the now closed bulb. The boy drops the rest of the stick and looks back toward Artemis.

"They'll chomp a finger right off," he says, "maybe even a hand, depending on how big one is."

Artemis eyes the plant, backing away ever so slightly, before raising an eyebrow and facing the boy. "How'd you know that would happen?"

The boy grimaces at the plant. "I helped make it."

"What?"

"Well, not _that_ one, but the first lot of the species and the whole creation for it. I was…there for that." He shrugs. "It's what we do down in District Five. We…" he lets out a sigh, "_make_…things."

"Science and mutation," Artemis mutters.

"Yeah."

They fall into silence and Artemis turns back to studying the plant, making sure not to try and touch anything this time. She's waiting for the boy to leave, but he doesn't; instead, he continues to stand in the same spot, his attention being drawn to something off to the right. Not that she should care, Artemis turns her gaze to the same spot he's looking at – the District Four couple at the blades station who inspect and try out the different type of knives and daggers, their fingers continuing to brush against the backs of each other's hands. It's really no secret that they are together.

This District Five boy must really love to talk, because he winces at the couple and mutters, "That's really dumb." Artemis doesn't say anything; doesn't give any sign that she wants to know _why_ he said that, but he explains himself anyway. "I don't get why they would both volunteer so they were in the same games together," he says. "If they became the final two, one of them is going to have to kill the other, if not, then they're going to have to watch each other die." Funny-looking, red eyebrows are drawn down into a frown of bewilderment, and almost disgust. "One of the girls from my district – Karen – her boyfriend tried to volunteer so he could be in the games with her as well. Luckily he wasn't able to, because that would be awful."

His voice drops down to a breath, so that Artemis isn't sure whether she's supposed hear him as he stabs the toe of his boot into the floor and murmurs: "Not that this shit is awful enough already. We've all been thrown here to die, just because they want an exciting show."

She doesn't want to agree with him; agreeing with him would cause a tie of alliance, a weak spot in the armour, and she doesn't need that.

But over the past few days, the words of this boy – this boy who helped make a plant and has red hair that could stand out in any environment – have been the only thing that has made any real sense to her.

* * *

It's a taxing task, trying to remain focused on what is in front of him. More difficult than he had previously imagined it to be. It doesn't help that the objects of his distractions happen to be in the station next to him; weighing knives and drifting their fingers over the other, while he tries for the umpteenth time to fix this snare just right so it will work.

Kaldur shakes his head and turns his body so it's harder to see them. He can't deny that part of the reason for his voluntary submission into the Games was the fact that both Garth and Tula were also in the Games. He may be able to deny some things, but he can't deny that. He can't deny that his heart is still caught between the ache and longing for someone he thought may end up his, and the loyalty towards the best friend – his best friend – that she chose. And he can't deny that up until now, his heart has been foolishly hanging onto the hope that one day, things will change.

The snare snaps back up to it's original form, stirring Kaldur from his stupor as it narrowly avoids hitting him in the face. He lets out a startled noise that gains the attention of the ginger-headed boy his age that is also at the snares station – expertly twisting and pulling branches as he creates his own, flawless snare. Kaldur is certain he's one of the tributes from District Ten, and the skill that the young man has just demonstrated confirms this idea; District Ten are renowned for their citizen's hunting prowess.

"Watch it, there," the young man grunts, nodding towards the spot where Kaldur's own trap had been established, until it had busted, of course. Kaldur merely nods and directs his attention back to the snare, figuring the conversation is over.

"You're the one that volunteered for that girl, aren't you?" Kaldur freezes, wondering if he is really that transparent. Did he really volunteer just for Tula? Is that what everyone thinks? Is that what he did?

"How did you…?"

"It was in the replays," the ginger boy frowns in confusion. "Everyone saw it. I thought the peacekeepers were going to sedate that girl all the way here, and then you stood up."

Kaldur relaxes a little. He's talking about Lori – the girl he _actually_ volunteered for – not Tula. "I felt…" he chokes out. "I felt I had to."

The other young man scoffs, standing up and brushing his hands against his legs. "Yeah, well – you're crazy." Kaldur shoots him a look of perplexity. "Anyone who gets up to volunteer is damn crazy," the District Ten boy adds, before walking away and leaving Kaldur staring down at the snare.

* * *

It's not like Roy was _trying_ to follow his mentor and father around; not completely. However, he certainly wasn't expecting to end up eavesdropping on a hushed conversation between Ollie and the mentor of District Three – he knows that much – as he presses his back up against the wall and tilts his head for a better hearing position. The pair speak in a simple, short and cut pattern. Minimal wording and straight to the point, without being conspicuous to those who walk down the halls past them.

"Would've been nice if we knew about this earlier," Roy hears Ollie's gruff voice mumble, replied to by a hard, cold and hollow-sounding voice that echoes from the other man's mouth.

"We tried to get a message to you. We were unable to get through." Roy's eyebrows are drawn down into a confused frown. What are they talking about? What should they have been told earlier?

"Yeah, yeah." Roy can just imagine that Ollie is rolling his eyes. "Look, are you sure it's going to work? Because if it doesn't, you're going to be pretty damn screwed, Bruce."

"If all the steps are completely properly and quickly, then it should work. It's up to them what will happen." Them? Who's them? Are they talking about the tributes?

"Yeah? And you think they'll be able to manage it?"

It goes quiet, and Roy leans his head closer, straining to hear as their voices grow quieter.

"The four of them have been training for this for months. They can do this."

Ollie's reply is dubious. "If you say so."

"What about your tributes? Do you believe that they will support the motion?" Roy leans even closer.

"_Oh_ yeah. Most of them will be on board for sure. I know at least two of them wouldn't hesitate to take up an opportunity to give the Capitol a punch to the face." Roy smiles grimly. He knows Ollie is talking about him and Artemis. He had made a similar comment towards them during the opening ceremony ("Look, I know you two aren't at all pleased about having to stand anywhere near each other, but just pretend you're both going up there to kick President Savage in the face, and keep those smiles on, alright?").

"And are you going to tell them?" With the District Three mentor's last query, Roy nods to himself, feeling that with no doubt Ollie is going to say yes. Yes, he will tell them. He will.

"No." Roy freezes, his eyes widening, his chest filling with anger. "No, they don't need to know this. If it comes down to it, they'll be able to figure it out – but I'm not going to tell them and add even more on their plate."

"Fair enough." Roy turns and bolts away, seething with outrage and betrayal. Why wouldn't Ollie want to tell them? Why wouldn't Ollie want to at least tell _him? _

He's silent throughout dinner that night, watching Ollie keenly as he continues to act like nothing has changed. As soon as he's had his fill, he retires for the night, claiming he wants to be as fresh as possible for another day of training tomorrow.

As he lies on top of the soft, floral-smelling mattress, his fingers twitch for a bow – _his bow_. His body aches to be out in the forest hunting, just like he would do every morning; following the creek downstream, being sure to stay upwind of his prey.

It's only as his head fills with images of the forest, shooting down a roe buck, that it finally sinks into him.

Come a few days time, he probably won't hunt ever again.

* * *

Cassie trains separately from the other Careers; holding her head high, determined to do this all on her own. Because she _can_ do it all on her own. She can. Others may think she's not capable – blonde, fourteen, smiling and giggling at everything she does successfully – but she knows she is. She knows she's strong. She knows she's fast. She may not have the years of training under her belt like the rest of her top-District counterparts, but she has still trained. She has still prepared for this – just a little…unorthodoxly compared to others. She volunteered for a reason, and she's determined to show everyone else that reason.

So, as she lassoes a thick tree stump and pulls it towards her, the sliced bottom of it grating on the tiles of the training centre, she smiles and eyes the stump triumphantly. She_ knows_ she can do this.

* * *

Her name is Raquel, the girl tells Zatanna. She's from District Six, with their extensive factories and loud machinery and – of late – the growing whispers of rebel activity within the walls of the district. The last topic of course, neither of them dare to bring up. It rides under as an unspoken agreement; a joint knowledge, that the fabled rebellion is something that _is_ happening, sometime when everyone will least expect it.

Raquel asks Zatanna about her home life, after running through all the various aspects about her own, and Zatanna surprises herself with the words that slide out over her lips. She tells Raquel about everything, from her school, to her and her father's favourite thing to do on her birthday – from the crazy storms they get during the spring, to Billy's grin whenever he climbs a tree, pretending to be an adventurer. She tells Raquel about the huge bookcase in their house, and the enormous collection of books her father has collected from various places over the years. She tells her about Billy's talent for sneaking into places – from the old candy store in the main street, to the government building on the Reaping day.

She doesn't realize how much her mouth is actually running off when a hand softly squeezes her wrist. Her voice stops in its retelling of Reaping day, and how she watched peacekeepers drag her father and Billy and away, and she realizes that the arm Raquel is holding is shaking, and a few traitorous tears have slipped out from the corners of her eyes.

She hasn't spoken about what happened in the government building to any of the other tributes from her district, to her mentor or escort; it has been her own secret worry, running around in her head while everyone else has been concerned about their survival and how they're going to try and win the games.

She had no idea how much it has all built up.

"Hey," Raquel says, her hand still around the other girl's wrist, "I can't really give you anything definite, but…I don't think they would be dead. They're not really any use to the peacekeepers dead, and they didn't do anything crazily wrong. I think they'll be fine" She offers Zatanna a smile, who returns it weakly.

"But you know," Raquel adds, "if you win this, you'll be able to find out for sure. You'll be able to go back home to them."

Zatanna shakes her head. "I'm not going to win," she whispers.

"Don't count yourself out that quickly, Zee. I know I won't be" Raquel shrugs. "If you want something enough, it's pretty easy to get it."

* * *

By the time the Careers are at the weapons stations for the third time that day, Conner rolls his eyes and branches off from them, telling Cameron he's going to check out other stuff as he walks away to the nearest non-weapon station – the camouflage station.

The young boy that is already there, finding some amount of glee in smearing mud and clay over his arms and face, immediately shifts to the other side of the table when he sees Conner walking over. Conner tries to ignore the wide green eyes that are watching him intently as he works, clumsily splatting some mud onto his skin and trying to work it into some form of disguise. After a while however, with the boy still staring at him, Conner sighs and swings his head to face the kid, who jumps a little in his seat and looks away from Conner quicky.

"What?" Conner says, mud slipping through his fingers.

The auburn haired boy ducks his head. "Nothing," he mumbles, and Conner rolls his eyes and shifts back to face the dirt, mud, twigs, leaves and various other things in front of him. How is it he is supposed to make camouflage out of this again?

"Hey Gar." Conner freezes as the recognizable voice floats over his shoulder, the District Nine girl who had told him and the other Careers off yesterday following it. She crouches down next to the boy and he speaks to her about the camouflage work he has done, and how he could hide up in a tree and no-one would be able to see him with it. The girl, whom Conner hears Gar call Megan, congratulates him softly and gives him a soft smile as together they work at cleaning the mud off Gar's arms.

Conner looks away, feeling as if he is intruding if he watches anymore. He continues to try and work at putting the same camouflage on his arms as Gar had done, beginning to get frustrated as he tries to understand how the twelve year old had done it.

"That was a horrible thing you did yesterday." Conner stops and glances to his right and Megan who is staring at him with an expression of disgust. Gar is standing behind her, flicking a concerned glance between the two.

Conner looks back down at the table. "I didn't do anything," he mutters.

"Exactly. You should've. Just because you're from one of the Career districts, doesn't mean you have to play along with their horrible games." She gives him one last frown before resting a hand on the shoulder of the boy behind her. "Come on, Gar," she says softly, turning on her heel to walk away.

Gar continues to flick his gaze between Conner and the retreating Megan, before taking a step to also walk away. Before he does, however, he stops and glances back at Conner.

"You need to thicken it up more," he says, "the mud. Also, add some leaves and sticks and stuff to it. It'll look more like the real ground that way."

Conner regards the boy, and sends him small, tight smile, watching as the ghost of one flickers over Gar's face before turns away and dashes after Megan.

* * *

They've had it drilled into them over and over. The importance of the final day of training. The moment when they wow the gamemakers for their final training score. The moment when they need to pull out the best they've got.

As the mentor of District Four, Orin, was speaking to them one last time before they went to the training arena, putting emphasis on the fact that they _need_ to show the gamemakers something great, Tula, Kaldur and Garth had all nodded in firm assent; each of them sure of what they were going to pull out.

La'gaan nodded as well of course, but his gesture was nowhere near as definite as the others. His head had loosely bobbed forward and back again, and he didn't have the same resolve behind it as his fellow tributes did.

If he wants to be completely honest with himself, he has no idea what he's going to do in order to get a high score.

But really, it can't be that hard. Can it? The gamemakers toss those scores around all the time without a second though.

He'll nail it – once he figures out what he's going to do.

Kaldur is the first to be called in, his face the picture of complete calm and contentment as he walks through the doors. The others wait in complete silence, seconds clicking over slowly as they're sitting on the bench. La'gann makes the mistake of watching the clock while he is waiting, and while it feels like an hour before Kaldur returns from the room, nodding at them as he passes, it has, in reality, only been five minutes or so.

Tula goes next, and it's another "feeling-like-an-hour-long" five minutes until La'gaan is finally called up. Sometime during the last five minutes, he had begun bouncing his leg up and down, and he stills it before he pushes himself up and walks through the doors from where Tula had just come.

The gamemakers are gathered around, drinking wine and laughing as he steps in. They seem to be talking about various topics while La'gaan moves to the centre of the room; he thinks he hears two men talking about what Tula had just shown them: "Some very fine talent there." "Oh, yes. And she moves with such grace."

La'gaan clears his throat, the sound echoing through the metal room, and for a moment the attention is turned to him. "Alright, 'Lagan'," one near the centre says. "Let's see what you got for us."

"_La'gaan,"_ he hisses to himself, moving toward the large throwing dollies. He breathes in, tenses up his muscles, making himself bigger, and picks up one of the dollies, heaving and throwing it with a shout, the metal clanging on the ground a reasonable distance away.

La'gaan looks up to the stand to see the reaction. In place of the impressed expressions he was expecting, he is confronted with bored eyes and lips turned down into frowns. They stare at him expectantly, waiting for something more, but after a while of silence and stillness, the one in the centre, apparently the Head Gamemaker, looks down at the clipboard in his lap. "You may go now, _Lagan_."

His jaw clenches and he ducks his burning face as he walks out, not missing the new whispers of conversation now darting between the gamemakers: "Wasn't he one that volunteered?" "You'd expect something more impressive, wouldn't you?"

A booming laugh. "Tell me about it. I think somebody should be back at minnow school."

* * *

The lights are bright in his face and the stage feels full of noise as he grits his teeth and forces a smile towards the massive crowd. "I've always looked up to Ollie," he says, answering the question of games interviewer Cat Grant. "He's been a great mentor, _and _a great father. And of course, it doesn't hurt that he's one of the more notable victors of the Games." His last comment gets a murmur of laughter from the crowd and Cat.

"And," he glances to the side so he's looking straight into one of the cameras that are projecting the interview around the country "he's always shown that he trusts me. Always. He's never kept anything from me. Having him as a mentor is really great in that sense."

"Well, hopefully you've taken note of all his tips," Cat says, way too cheerfully, looking at the meaning lying underneath her words. "Ladies and gentlemen, Roy Harper!" Roy stands and nods to the crowd before walking off the stage.

Artemis is standing just outside the wings as he walks out, looking at him skeptically. "What the hell was all that sap about?" She asks, just loud enough so Roy can hear her over Cat Grant announcing Cissie King-Jones to come onto stage.

Roy ignores her, walking past her and standing wait in front of one of the TVs hung on the wall. Artemis follows him, not pushing on the question, but still staring at him, expecting an answer.

She gets one when Ollie rounds the corridor quickly and walks straight up to Roy. He quickly glances around the area and faces Roy with an expression of concern. "How much do you know?" he asks in a low voice.

"More than what you cared to tell me." Roy replies. Artemis is glancing between the two in confusion. Cissie's voice is heard through the speakers.

"What's going on?" Artemis asks, but has apparently turned invisible some point between now and ten seconds ago.

"Look, I didn't want to concern you kids with it," Ollie rubs a hand across his eyes. "You've got enough to worry about already without adding this on top of it."

"So what?" Roy is almost ready to raise his voice, but stops himself as he thinks about the attention that will bring. Instead, he speaks in a yelled whisper. "You thought it would just be better to leave us in the dark? With no clue as to what you mentors are planning?"

"Roy, it's not like tha-"

"Hey!" Dark fingers snap between their faces, right in front of their eyes, and they both glance down to see dark grey eyes blazing in anger. "Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Artemis hisses, glaring up at them. "What should you have told us about, Ollie? What's this 'plan' you're talking about?"

Ollie glances around swiftly and grabs the arms of both of them, pulling them into a small enclave, hidden from anyone who would casually walk past without a second glance. "Alright," he whispers, "but you two can't mention any of this again, got it?" He receives two nods in return; one solemn, one confused. "District Three is planning to begin the rebellion during this years games," he says, "other districts, like Five and Six, are also in on the plan." At the mention of District Five, short images of plants that bite you and untamed red hair flash through Artemis' head. She shakes them off.

"Okay, that's great," she deadpans, "but it's not exactly going to affect us. We're already heading off to hell tomorrow."

"No, you don't understand," Ollie whispers. "The District Three tributes will be launching the rebellion from _inside the arena_. During the games. They've all received training and have figured out a way to sabotage and escape from the arena. The hope is that they can achieve that as early as possible, so they can get more tributes out alive."

"Is there anything we'll be able to help with?" Roy asks.

Ollie shakes his head. "The best you can do is try to survive until it happens. If you catch up with any of Three's tributes, and they need you to lend a hand, do it. But really, all you can do is keep yourselves – _and each other _," he gives a pointed look towards the both of them, " – alive.

"Can you guys do that?" He asks, receiving two nods in return as, in the background, Cissie is dismissed off stage. "Good. I'm glad I can finally get you two to agree on something."

* * *

The conversation is rapid and hushed Dick pulls on the clothes that have been set out for him. "There are multiple balls with different qualities sewed into the hem of your jacket," his 'stylist' whispers. "You'll know which one does what. There is about 50 feet of wire in the waistband of your pants, and various connectors in your jacket sleeves. The detachments on the soles of your boots have instruments measuring electricity quality and conductivity, as well as other measurements, and a way to get to the ideal coordinates to pull this off correctly. I…I think that's all the important stuff. Bette, Barbara and Tim all have the same equipment."

"We'll work it out," Dick murmurs, sending a quick grin to the man in front of him. "Wish us luck."

"The entire district, as well some others, will all be wishing you luck." Dick steps into the glass tube to take him up to the arena. The door slides shut with a hiss and the platform begins to lift.

"Let's hope we don't let them down," Dick mutters, as the darkness from underground opens up into a green field, fresh and cool air, and the tension of forty-eight bodies ready to be launched into the single living hell.

The arena. The second Quarter Quell. The fiftieth annual Hunger Games.

_Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six…_

As her eyes adjust to the dim light of the cloudy-skied arena, Zatanna looks around; not at her opponents, not at the Cornucopia, but for one of the many cameras that are pointed down onto them, ready to broadcast their entire ordeal to every civilian in the nation. If she finds one, maybe she'll be able to look straight into it; see through it whether her father and Billy are okay, and find some way to tell them, _'I'll be safe. I'll try to make it home. I promise.'_

…_fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine_

Her legs are twitching with excitement and anxiety, and it takes all the willpower she can muster not to bound off the platform and begin the Games. Bright eyes dart around the arena, and Cassie not-so patiently waits for the beginning siren.

…_forty-four, forty-three, forty-two…_

The air is wet. At least there'll be no trouble finding water. It's also cold; through her jacket Artemis can already feel the cool, wet atmosphere bringing goosebumps up on her arms – that's going to be a problem at night time, especially with the wet ground, which is also going to make it difficult to start a fire. Artemis gazes around the forest surrounding them; mostly evergreen, glints of water drops hanging off of leaves. The Cornucopia is surrounded by the broken stone walls of a building ruin, and Artemis has no doubt that she's going to find more of those around the arena.

She bends forward and prepares herself for the dash off the starting platform and onto the slick grass. She can work with this.

_...thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three…_

Gar wants to dart off this platform and run as fast as he possibly can. He wants to keep running until he finds the edge of the arena, and keep on running after that, all the way back to District Nine, never tiring, never slowing, never stopping.

He remains rooted where he stands.

…_twenty-eight, twenty-seven…_

La'gaan tries to focus on the Cornucopia and work out a plan of attack, but his eyes keep catching on the figures of his fellow District Four competitors. Garth and Tula are placed on platforms not so far away from each other, and are seemingly communicating with each other as the clock ticks on. Kaldur is further away – on the other side of the clearing – looking calm and focused as he always does; like this is nothing to him.

La'gaan's fists close and tighten. He'll show them. He'll show them all.

…_twenty-one, twenty, nineteen, eighteen…_

The Beetle muttering away in his head, it's scratchy voice demanding that he run straight for the Cornucopia, pick up as many weapons as he can, and kill anyone who gets in his way. It's all Jaime can do to not clutch his head and scream at it to shut the hell up and just go away.

"Ignore it," he whispers through clenched teeth. "Ignore it."

_...twelve, eleven, ten, nine…_

Kaldur keeps his face passive and focussed, but his gaze keeps drifting towards Tula and Garth. He has some odd and completely outrageous hope that maybe it will get better after this, maybe he'll finally be able to stop pining after Tula, and this pain in his heart will finally ebb away.

But there is only one thing he can be certain of; his pain is going to end after this, one way or another.

…_five, four, three…_

Dick is close enough to Barbara to be able to send a nod her way, and receive one in return. Whilst both Tim and Bette are not as close, he knows they've got the plan firmly inserted in their heads. They have the necessary provisions hidden in their clothes, and the words of their mentor ringing in their ears.

…_two…_

This is the moment where everything will change.

…_one._

* * *

**The games are about to begin. Who are you rooting for? ;) -Annica**


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